Narrow Paths
by crazyidea-inc
Summary: A series of short vignettes inspired by 20th century poetry. Will be updated every once and a while, but each vignette stands on its own. T, just in case.
1. Would You Like to Sin?

one day i came across this little ditty and found myself imagining the following scene between matthew and mary. so i looked up another poem. and another. and another. and then it became far too fun to be just an exercise :) i'll update as i find poems from the time that fit certain scenarios playing around in my head.

this vignette is set before pamuk and definitely before either of them realized that the amount of sexual tension they were generating could power a small city. overall title stolen shamelessly from "passions" by maurice maeterlinck.

XXX

_Would you like to sin_

_With Elinor Glyn_

_On a tiger skin?_

_Or would you prefer_

_To err with her_

_On some other fur? _

He's a bit startled to catch her on her own. He certainly had no desire to spend any more time than necessary with her; every time she glares at him it makes him feel as if she is trying to silently will him to spontaneously burst into flames. But her expression when she spots him is startled rather than murderous. She leaps up at his approach, ever so slightly pink and guilty-looking.

"What are you reading?" he inquires politely after an awkward moment. She adjusts her hold on the book so that her place is marked, but the cover is hidden in her skirts.

"Just a novel," she replies evasively, but her eyes flick nervously to some spot over his shoulder as though she wants nothing more than to bolt. He's rather enjoying her discomfiture; what a nice change, to be the one with the upper hand.

"May I see?" he asks innocently. She glowers at him.

"I shouldn't - " Her knuckles flash white against the book. "I shouldn't think you'd find it very interesting." Matthew grins.

"You might be surprised," he retorts playfully. She regards him for a moment, expression stony, then abruptly flips the title toward him: Elinor Glyn's _Three Weeks. _Now it's his turn to flush. She stares at him defiantly, dark eyes flashing.

"'Would you like to sin/With Elinor Glyn/On a tiger skin?'" she recites coolly and Matthew thinks her wish for his unexpected death by fire is surely going to come true - his ears alone feel as if they are smoking already. The look she's giving him isn't helping in the slightest; how is he the one strangled with embarrassment when _she's _the one reading the scandalous Mrs. Glyn? He honestly doesn't know how she manages it, but it's frustrating enough to unravel his tongue.

"Perhaps on some other fur," he quips and her eyes widen to the size of saucers. He nods to her courteously and continues on his walk, shocked and a little pleased at his own daring. It's quite a shame really - had he lingered for a moment longer, he would have witnessed Mary's uncontrollable fit of giggles. Not such a boring solicitor after all.

XXX

naughty little ditty written about elinor glyn, who allegedly based her erotic novel "three weeks" on her affair with lord alistair innes ker. perhaps rosamund snuck it in for her niece to read.


	2. Give Me Your Answer Do

oh, william.

XXX

_Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,_

_I'm half crazy all for the love of you._

_It won't be a stylish marriage -_

_I can't afford a carriage,_

_But you'd look sweet on the seat_

_Of a bicycle built for two._

It hurts to breathe, but he's never slept in a bed so soft, never felt so at peace. His father is here, and his girl, his Daisy. He wants to smile at her, to pat her hand, to let her know that he was all right, but he's so tired. Perhaps after he rests.

She's beautiful, his Daisy. Oh, Lady Mary and Lady Sybil, they have their fine airs and graces, their fancy dresses and such, but his Daisy, _his _Daisy, she outshines them all. She glows, his Daisy. His wife.

She's staring into space, and once more, he considers holding her hand, running a thumb along her palm like his father used to do with his mother, but his chest squeezes. He winces; the twinges are coming harder and faster now, and he can't help but think that it's coming, and soon. He hopes his mother is there to see him. She always was the first at the door when he visited home, and he knew that if she had her way, she'd be the first to greet him in heaven. The laugh gets tangled in his ribs and breathing becomes a struggle, but he can't help but chuckle to imagine his mother, demanding Jesus to let her stand at the gate to wait for her son. His eyes slip closed.

He'll wait for Daisy that way, when it's her time. He hopes it's not for many years to come.

He likes her hair done up that way, but he likes her usual bun better. She's prettiest when she doesn't try, when she's elbow deep in suds and sneaking a wink at Anna. Mrs. Patmore, all fuss and bluster, would catch her and swipe at her head with a spoon, and Daisy, bright red and giggly with embarrassment, would flash a sheepish grin at William. He felt some of her glow, then, like a mug of tea, like the smell of the summery barn cat at home. His Daisy.

He can feel that warmth flickering now, starting to ease itself out of his body. He sighs, and it doesn't hurt so much, not so much at all. He'd hoped to be married in a church, well and whole, with a happier Daisy at his side. _A bicycle built for two_, he thinks, and grins inwardly to imagine Daisy trying to pedal one of those gangly things. He's done what he can. And at least he can die knowing that she is provided for, that he can support her, even after he is gone.

Another flicker. Nearly there.

_Daisy, Daisy._

Gone.

XXX

a normally cheerful song, written in the late 1800s. trust me to make into something horribly depressing.


	3. And Yet There Beauty Lay

i love this couple. i loooooove this couple. they're going to have some damn attractive babies.

XXX

_My arms are like the twisted thorn_

_And yet there beauty lay;_

_The first of all the tribe lay there_

_And did such pleasure take;_

_She who had brought great __Hector down_

_And put all Troy to wreck._

She's there, lying in his arms, her cheek smudged against his chest, one leg draped over his, but he still half-wonders if she is nothing but the product of his fevered imagination, soon to disappear as the grey light of dawn grows bold and becomes morning.

This is the first time they will wake up together as man and wife; it's a giddy thought, one he had never really considered in all his lonely garage daydreams. The night of, yes, of course - and how hard and yet how irresistible it had been to meet her eyes the next day, to ask where she was off to. But he had never paused to ponder the first morning, this first morning, and now here he is, living it.

She's Sybil now, well and truly. Not Lady Sybil, not the Earl's daughter, but _Sybil_. He loves her firecracker spirit with its waving flags and marching band - her _passion, _he thinks with a grin - but it's funny the way his heart pounds even faster to see her so unguarded, so natural. It's in her gentleness that her true mettle shows; she is never so strong to him than in moments like these, when she looks so young and soft. She's a conundrum, his Sybil, and one he will never tire of puzzling out.

She stirs then, stretching like a cat. She settles with a thoroughly satisfied snuffle, curling tighter against him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Branson," he murmurs, nudging his nose against her forehead. She smiles widely, eyes still closed, and he presses his lips to her temple.

"Good morning, husband," she whispers and she blinks slowly, luxuriously awake. She gazes up at him and he puts his arm around her; his heart still catches when she molds herself to him, as if there were no place else she would rather be than in his arms.

XXX

poem by w. b. yeats, an irish writer in the early 1900s. fits them well, don't you think?


	4. If You Can Keep Your Head

isobel is the best. she is simply the best. and if mary can feel it when matthew is wounded, then so can isobel.

XXX

_If you can keep your head when all about you _

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; _

_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, _

_But make allowance for their doubting too: _

_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting…_

Her son. Her son. Somewhere inside her, an older, less professional woman is tearing at her hair, screaming and wailing like the Trojan women of old. Her son. Her boy. Her Matthew.

She remembers the day his father died. It was a needless loss, one so easily prevented. "You must walk more," she'd insisted. "All that brandy can't be good for you. Go bicycling with Matthew." And her husband had waved her worries aside, grinning the grin that still makes her breath catch when she sees it on her son's face.

"_I _am the doctor," he'd reply, but his clear blue eyes would twinkle and he would squeeze her hand reassuringly. "You, my dear, are a worrywart."

Matthew had always been an unusually serious boy. But something had been lost, when his father died. Nineteen but exhausted as if he had lived a thousand years, he had grown up overnight. Her little boy, now a man.

She presses a handkerchief to her mouth, staring hard out the window, watching the hills roll and level until the ache retreats to hover, waiting for another moment of weakness. She cannot cry now, for if she starts, she will not stop, and she must be strong for her son. She had been packed before the telegram had even arrived; sometimes, a mother just knows. She had wobbled while walking down the street, and she had known. She was not a wobbler. And her son's face came unbidden into her mind, his father's careless grin shining on his still-boyish face, and she had pressed a hand to her heart.

"_Etes-vous bien, madame_?" an older man had asked her, gently touching her arm. She had recoiled, staring at him.

"_Mon fils_," she'd replied shakily, then, in English, "My son." And she had brushed his helpful hand away, stumbling to her little apartment and there she had very mechanically packed everything she would need for her trip to Downton. Then she'd eased herself slowly onto the bed, trunks stacked beside her, and waited until the telegram was delivered.

And now she sits in a train determined to draw out this hateful journey for as long as possible, and all the while her son waits for her, alone and wounded. Impatience makes her sharp; none of the servers offer her tea anymore, and the girl she had snapped at peeks at her from a distance, cowed. She folds the handkerchief and tucks it into her sleeve, just in case. She will apologize to the girl later, when she gets off. Crises do not excuse rude behavior.

At last, steam hisses around the windows as the train pulls into the station, and she stands, willing her knees to hold her upright.

_My boy, my boy, _keens the woman inside her.

Isobel Crawley raises her chin.

XXX

poem written by rudyard kipling in 1895.


	5. Which A Minute Will Reverse

i DESPISED the robert infedility plotline. hugh bonneville is a fantastic actor, absolutely brilliant - had anyone else played him, i would have loathed that character even after he dismissed jane.

XXX

_And indeed there will be time _

_To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" _

_Time to turn back and descend the stair, _

_With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— _

_[__They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"] _

_My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, _

_My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— _

_[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"] _

_Do I dare Disturb the universe? _

_In a minute there is time _

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

There are times when he thinks of her, of her smiles and her tears, of her touch and her absence and the boy he'd hoped to meet. He often wonders if his attraction to her was a manifestation of wishful thinking, for the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how similar she and his wife are in coloring: same soft, dark hair, same light eyes, same wide pink mouth. They could be sisters, but for the difference in station. And but for the boy.

He thinks of the son more than the mother. If he's healthy. If he's strong. He had a son, too. Small. Shriveled. Dead. And, guiltily, painfully, he wonders if that wasn't part of it. The idea, the obsession that this woman, who so resembled his wife had borne a living son - what if his fascination stemmed from a sicker, shakier place?

He loves his wife. He does. He hadn't at first, to be sure, but now the idea of living without her is unfathomable and bewildering - a place his mind teeters at daily, between the black and white. He had almost lost her. He should not dwell on the other, with whom he had almost forsaken thirty-one years of marriage. Cora is his wife. Cora is the woman he loves.

It's funny, really. He watches his eldest daughter and Matthew dance around each other warily, circling closer and closer, unable to resist the urge to be near, to want, and how it reminds him of the younger days of his marriage. It had been a long, cautious process, falling in love with Cora, as unsettling for her as it was for him. He'd felt wrong-footed, inarticulate, bumbling - not at all the Earl he had wanted to be. Cora managed it far better, somehow; perhaps fretting over the proper way to do things (as dictated by his mother) gave her an outlet for the nervous energy charging between them.

And now it is as if they have been transported back to that time of uncertainty and stumbling. He is just as clumsy with Cora now as Matthew is with Mary, which is quite a feat to say the least. He doesn't know what to say, what to do; years of a steady rhythm and routine have been thrown off by one stupid mistake and finding their balance seems harder than when they were just discovering it.

Does she want to be alone, or would she prefer to talk in the mornings, as they used to? Should he compliment her on her dress or her hair, or would she think him a fool? He asks Carson to tell Mrs. Patmore to fix her favorite tart. He buys her a new necklace. How to engage her interest, to converse - this is worse than courtship. He is a man of nearly fifty years of age. He should not be acting like a gangly boy of nineteen.

He wonders sometimes if she has guessed what he almost did, if she knows of his indiscretion and is hurt by it.

And somehow his mistakes make him love her all the more.

XXX

poem by t. s. eliot, from "the love song of j. alfred prufrock."


	6. All Hatred Driven Hence

branson will be forgiven eventually. and sybil will have the baby at downton. and that is that.

XXX

_Considering that, all hatred driven hence,_

_The soul recovers radical innocence _

_And learns at last that it is self-delighting, _

_Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, _

_And that its own sweet will is heaven's will; _

_She can, though every face should scowl_

_And every windy quarter howl _

_Or every bellows burst, be happy still._

"Isn't she beautiful?" her youngest whispers. "Isn't she _beautiful_?"

The first time her daughter fell in love, it had broken Cora's heart. Her defiance, her anger as the chauffeur stood beside her, these rebellions shocked Cora. But it was the look she had given the man they had trusted to deliver their daughter safely that had truly hurt her. Such love. Such fierce, all-consuming love. She should have known. She was her mother. She should have known.

But now she watches Sybil fall in love in an entirely new way, and she cannot help but be reminded of herself, holding her child much in the same manner as Sybil is holding her granddaughter now.

"Another girl," her mother-in-law had sighed, but even her disdain could not ruin Cora's joy. They had hoped for a boy, yes, an heir to finally secure Downton's survival. But one glimpse of Sybil's tiny pink mouth and staggeringly small fingers and Cora was head over heels.

"Oh, Mamma," Sybil breaths now, no longer a baby in her arms but a fully grown woman with a child of her own. She looks at her mother, flushed and so happy, and Cora cannot speak, she is so moved. Wordlessly, she tucks a damp curl out of her daughter's face and smiles, struggling to keep her tears at bay.

A knock at the door. Mrs. Hughes pops her head in.

"I think the poor father's going to worry himself to death if he has to wait a moment longer," she comments wryly, but the look on her face as she spies the newest addition to the family is gentle, a rare moment of tenderness for the normally brisk housekeeper.

"Let him in," Sybil says, and Mrs. Hughes steps aside to reveal Branson, exhausted and disheveled. His hair is a mess - he looks as though he's done nothing but run a shaky hand through it since Sybil first went into labor. And, oh, his clothes: rumpled, a new brandy stain, and the sleeves are rolled up in the most vulgar manner. Just how, exactly, he manages to look as if he hasn't shaved for a week when yesterday he was as fresh as a footmen is beyond Cora. She makes as if to stand up, to give them some privacy despite her misgivings, when she is stilled by the look on her daughter's husband's face.

_Goodness, _she thinks. _He's fallen in love, too._

It's true - there's a light in his eyes that belies their weariness, and all his rough edges suddenly seem softened. He walks to Sybil as if in a dream.

"There's someone who wants to meet you," her daughter says shyly, and Cora's breath catches, for hadn't she said those exact words to Robert so many years ago? And Robert, trembling and utterly bowled over, had held Sybil like Branson holds _his _little girl, the same look of awe now gracing his son-in-law's face. He beams at Sybil, and Cora eases herself out, giving Mrs. Hughes a quick smile as she goes.

Well, she can hardly dislike a man who adores her granddaughter so much. Branson is forgiven, she admits with a sigh. Though heaven help him if he thinks he's going to spirit that child away to Ireland. Cora has a lot of spoiling to do.

XXX

excerpt from "a prayer for my daughter" by w. b. yeats. i like me some yeats. appropriate, i think.


	7. Damn Me, Dear, But Don't Decieve Me

i really wish she didn't have to die. i feel like she and evelyn napier would have been adorable together.

XXX

_Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me_

_Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me?_

_I could pardon much, believe me:_

_Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me,_

_Kiss me, kill me, love me, leave me,-_

_Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me! _

It's almost funny, in a way, because she'd prepared herself to be angry. All those months of watching her fiancé gaze after a woman who is everything Lavinia is not - confident, strong, the very picture of what an earl's wife should be - and she still cannot be angry.

She had seen them. She had stood, teetering on the stairs, and watched the man she loves dance with the woman he loves. And she had watched them kiss. And then she couldn't be angry, could she, not when it was so clear:

It was goodbye.

They were saying goodbye. And that hurts her, more than she can say, because she knows all too well what Mary Crawley feels. She knows what it is to want something always out of reach, to smile at the one she loves only to see his eyes on someone else. It would be infinitely easier, she thinks, to say that she lost Matthew to Mary, but that isn't true, is it? She never had him to begin with.

And it costs her a piece of her heart, knowing that, because she also knows that this goodbye was truly an end. Matthew won't be unfaithful to Lavinia once they are married; he is too good, too noble. As for Mary - Mary will marry Sir Richard, even though she is miserable with him, even though she ages a hundred years every time her betrothal is announced. Simply by virtue of accepting his proposal, she has made her intentions toward Matthew clear: she is trying to move on. Lavinia knows Sir Richard, knows his temper and his threats. If Mary is willing to live with that man for the rest of her life, to submit to him as his _wife_, then she is deadly serious.

_Do what is right_, her father always tells her. _Do what is right. _What is right? Is there any path that she can take that will not hurt someone? She must be honest, that is certain. There have been too many secrets as of late, too many tiny lies intended to smooth over things that should not have been allowed to fester as they have. So she will tell the truth, though it might very well kill her.

And Lavinia thinks that if she could will herself to die, she would.

XXX

poem by edith nesbit.


	8. It's Bully Sport and It's Open Fight

however initially weirded out by branson's "you love me, you just don't know it yet" tactic i was, this couple kind of snuck its way into my heart. i have a weakness for adorableness.

XXX

_It's bully sport and it's open fight;_

_It will keep you busy both day and night;_

_For the toughest kind of a game you'll find_

_Is to make your body obey your mind_

_You never will know what is meant by grit_

_Unless there's something you've tried to quit. _

She is an intelligent, independent young woman who knows what she wants. And she does _not _want to kiss the chauffeur.

She does not want to kiss the chauffeur when she spies on him working on the car, sleeves rolled up so that his forearms are bare.

She does not want to kiss the chauffeur when their eyes meet in the mirror as he drives her into town.

And she does _not _want to kiss the chauffeur when she lies awake at night, flinging the covers off of her legs in an attempt to relieve the heat that no one else seems to be experiencing.

And somehow, it changes from "she does not want to kiss the _chauffeur_" to "she does _not _want to kiss _Branson_." And then "Branson" becomes "Tom" and it takes every ounce of energy to focus, to concentrate on basic, everyday tasks, because she runs into doors, _she runs into doors_ she is so determined not to kiss the chauffeur.

It's not as if kissing the chauffeur would be unpleasant, necessarily. She is sure that Branson is a nice enough fellow, and kissing him would not be entirely without its benefits. To another girl, kissing Branson might be fun, even, although she has a tendency to break things whenever she considers the possibility of another girl. But she doesn't want to. Kiss the chauffeur. She doesn't want to kiss the chauffeur. Yes.

Although.

Those _forearms_.

XXX

poem by edgar albert guest.


	9. Sold For Endless Rue

i don't hate thomas, but i'm not sure i like him either. despite my mixed emotions regarding our cunning little friend (or perhaps because of them), he's a character intriguing to write.

XXX

_When I was one-and-twenty_

_I heard a wise man say,_

_"Give crowns and pounds and guineas_

_But not your heart away;_

_Give pearls away and rubies_

_But keep your fancy free."_

_But I was one-and-twenty,_

_No use to talk to me._

_When I was one-and-twenty_

_I heard him say again,_

_"The heart out of the bosom_

_Was never given in vain;'_

_Tis paid with sighs a plenty_

_And sold for endless rue.__"_

_And I am two-and-twenty,_

_And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. _

He wants. He wants so much that it hurts, that it twists in him like some screw, pinning his heart to his ribs. He wants satisfaction, surety. He wants to feel contentedness. He wants, he _wants_. Something in him is always niggling, aching, ranging for revenge for some long forgotten grievance. He should be more. Why isn't he more?

He thinks, sometimes, of a summer when he had almost felt…at rest. Not at peace, but a lull certainly, a moment where some gear in his chest loosened and ran a bit more smoothly than before. Then it had all been snatched away, torn cruelly from his grasp and thrown carelessly into the fire to be consumed as if none of it had meant anything at all.

Thomas had loved.

At first it was quiet, stifled - he had never met anyone so like himself, like a mirror image or like some missing part of him that had gone unnoticed until then. His grace, his sly smile; how Thomas had scorned William with his puppy eyes and his pathetic subservience to his attraction, his mooning over Daisy's eyes, her tiny, quick hands. But now - his heart pounded. His palms sweated. His breath hitched in his chest. Everything the man did made Thomas feel as though he were being pummeled by wave after wave of sudden and primal _want_. Not his usual longings; this was another league entirely. Something headier. Something almost…giddy.

The letters. The stolen kisses. It had been forbidden, fleeting, but infinitely delicious. To _be _wanted, instead of always being the want-_er - _how startling, how novel. He'd hardly dared to believe it, but eventually the newness had settled into something comfortable, something lazy. He was loved. He had obtained that much; soon everything else would fall into place.

But it hadn't, and now Thomas sits in the ruins of what he had been so certain would be his recompense at last. And he can't help but laugh through his tears, because even covered in dust disguised as flour, he thinks of his first and only love and how differently things might have turned out.

The letters are gone. So is his Duke. Gone up in ashes like everything else Thomas wants.

XXX

poem by a. e. housman


	10. I Saw Two Lovers Meet

just some riffing on what might have been going through mary's mind as she went to rescue sybil. this is why i adore michelle dockery so entirely: the subtext is so clear, the little nuances and discoveries that make a character a real person so sharply defined. yay for brilliant acting :)

XXX

_In the shadow of a broken house, _

_Down a deserted street, _

_Propt walls, cold hearths, and phantom stairs, _

_And the silence of dead feet —_

_Locked wildly in one another's arms _

_I saw two lovers meet._

They sit in silence but for the steady chug of the motor. Edith drives smoothly despite her obvious agitation; one gloved hand flexes around the wheel every so often, and the line of her mouth is hard. Anna, for her part, seems entirely unruffled. But for the occasional uncomfortable shift of her shoulders, one would assume that a frenzied drive to Gretna Green is a nightly occurrence for the amicable maid.

They had nearly been too late.

The thought still sends nausea shooting through Mary's stomach as she glances at her youngest sister, chastened and pensive next to her. The heavy knowledge of what might have happened presses into her, the ever-present ghost of Pamuk a tangible weight on her chest. She has saved her sister from that fate, that guilt, and that disgrace, but her pulse continues to jump erratically under her gloves as she watches a tear slip down Sybil's cheek.

_Good_, she thinks viciously, then sighs. A small part of her lingers on the look Sybil had given the chauffeur, and the look she had received in turn. It had surfaced an odd, unexpected remembrance, a quick flash of the night of the concert, when they had all thought Matthew lost only to have him stride down the aisle, whole and healthy and safe. The time was once when Matthew might have looked at her the way Branson looked at her sister.

A surge of something like grief slams into her, and she muses wryly, not for the first time, that either she is far better at concealing her feelings than she assumes or everyone around her is shockingly unobservant. Not that she isn't grateful for it. She will need a combination of both to survive the coming months, which will bring Matthew's marriage and her own. She'd nursed a fantasy, foolishly, that somehow the two events would never happen; something would always postpone the marriages, and while Mary might not ever have Matthew again, she would not lose him in such an irrevocable, final way. Some part of him would always remain in limbo, side-by-side with her. She could smile at him, and laugh with him, and brush hands with no cold rings to separate them forever.

But that isn't important right now, she thinks with a frown and another glance at her miserable sister. What's important is that Sybil is safe and innocent. She isn't damaged goods, as Mary is. No sordid whispers. No disappointed mothers. No nightmares.

Then why, as the car jostles on the uneven road, does she have the uneasy feeling that she has wronged her sister and the chauffeur in some way? Everything she has been taught dictated her actions tonight, and most of her is in agreement that Sybil had to be stopped, before the unthinkable happened. But still. That look.

_I did what I had to do_, Mary thinks dully, repeating it like a spell to make it true. _I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do._

XXX

poem by laurence binyon. he's quite good, no?


	11. The Truth of Yesterday

i think she loved him. if mrs. patmore hadn't tried to force it, and if the war hadn't begun so soon, it would have happened naturally. poor daisy. she's just confused.

XXX

_We are a liars, because_

_the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,_

_whereas letters are fixed,_

_and we live by the letter of truth._

_The love I feel for my friend, this year,_

_is different from the love I felt last year. _

_If it were not so, it would be a lie._

_Yet we reiterate love! love! love!_

_as if it were a coin with a fixed value_

_instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud. _

She lies awake, staring into the blackness above her. She has to get up in a few hours - it's plain silly to stay up all night thinking, but she can't help it. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees him, his uniform all neat and tidy and that grin he always has when he looks at her. He's different, somehow, changed; he's not just William anymore. He's something taller, bolder. There's a confidence to his step that he didn't have before and a strength in his gaze. He doesn't duck his head as much now, even when she knows he's feeling shy. And it makes her go over all queer-like, thinking about this new William.

She's never kissed a boy except him, though she'd wanted to sometimes. It had been different than she'd expected. His lips were soft, and his hands were big and warm on her face. _He's real, _she'd thought, stunned, and the idea still knocks her brain for six. Right now, he's breathing and dreaming and living. He might even be thinking, too. He might even be thinking about _her_.

She doesn't love him, she thinks. Mrs. Patmore shakes her head whenever Daisy tries to explain, and that's for the best, really, because she's not sure how to put what she knows into words, anyway. When he's gone, she's even less certain. He turns into someone else when he's gone, a not-William in her imagination who she _could _love. But then he comes back, and he _is _William, only now he's closer to the not-William, and oh, it makes Daisy's head hurt, puzzling it all out.

Mrs. Patmore is so set on her pretending to love him. She pushes them together like dough, kneading and pulling and pounding, but it just makes Daisy want to hide in a corner and cry. She loves William, but not that way, only maybe that way, but only sometimes, and does it count if it's only late at night or when she sees Anna and Mr. Bates? It's too many ifs to be love, Daisy thinks. Or is that what love is, a giant, scary if?

She wishes she could love him as much as she is supposed to.

XXX

poem by david herbert lawrence


	12. We Have Come Through

did anyone else notice the sudden drop of hostility after the season 2 finale between edith and mary? i mean, both of them kind of cooled their heels during the war, but all of a sudden they seemed positively domestic. good story fodder? absolutely.

XXX

_Ah, through the open door _

_Is there an almond tree _

_Aflame with blossom! _

_Let us fight no more. _

_Among the pink and blue _

_Of the sky and the almond flowers _

_A sparrow flutters. _

_We have come through…_

She adjusts a flower in her sister's hair, smoothing the veil a bit compulsively.

"There," Edith says encouragingly, but Sybil is oddly distant. She exchanges a look with Mary, who sits on the bed, fiddling with Sybil's bouquet, a bit absentmindedly. Normally Edith and Mary would have been at each other's throats, but if Edith didn't know better, she'd say that Mary looks defeated. She's putting on a good show, but something has dulled in her eyes in a way that Edith doesn't like, for all their bickering.

"You look beautiful, darling," Mary puts in. Sybil flicks a smile at them and sits at her boudoir, staring at herself in the little mirror. She looks like the very picture of a bride, Edith thinks with a familiar pang of wistfulness. Sybil and Mary will _both _be married soon, while Edith adjusts veils and arranges presents and stands by the wall. Her mother and grandmother cluck pityingly when they think she doesn't notice, and her father just sort of sighs. Edith is not the pretty sister, that's for certain.

But she does notice things. Namely, the way her youngest sister looks like she's about the walk down the aisle to a guillotine, not the man she loves.

"Sybil? Are you all right?" she asks after a moment. "Sybil?" Abruptly, Sybil bursts into tears, horrible ragged sobs that Edith has never heard from her strong, efficient sister before. With an alarmed glance at Mary, they both go to either side of her while she weeps.

"What is it?" Mary demands, almost frightened, Edith thinks. "What's wrong?"

"I shouldn't - " Sybil gulps, then dissolves into tears again, helplessly. Edith fishes around for a handkerchief. "It's nothing, it's stupid," she says thickly, taking the handkerchief. "It's just - "

"Just what?" Mary interrupts insistently. Edith glares at her. It took time, with some of the soldiers, and the same kind of patience has to be used with Sybil now. They had to trust that you were willing to listen, that they could talk, or they'd clam up and you'd have to start all over again.

"I know - I know Mamma's been ill," Sybil manages haltingly, staring determinedly at the ceiling with brimming eyes. "But I had so hoped - I just - I wanted Papa to, to walk me down the aisle. I wanted Granny to be there, and Matthew, and Aunt Rosamund." She glances at her sisters, then away again quickly. "I wanted them to be _happy _for me. But I see now that's not going to happen." Her face crumples.

"Of course it will," Edith says with as much conviction as she can muster while Sybil cries quietly. "_We're _here, aren't we?" she adds, indicating Mary and herself.

"We survived a war, darling. I daresay we'll survive you marrying the chauffeur," Mary adds.

"Please don't think I'm not grateful you're both here," Sybil says hastily, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. "I am, truly."

"We're your sisters," Edith says firmly, and Sybil laughs wetly.

"And it only took a war and a thousand other ghastly things to act like it," she comments with a wobbly smile. "Mamma has her _Little Women _at last." Mary rolls her eyes.

"Hardly," she retorts wryly, but her eyes as they catch and hold Edith's in the mirror are a little bright. "We really were awful, though." Her gaze is steady, if ever so slightly guarded.

It's as much of an apology as Edith is going to get, and not a very good one at that, but her throat hitches all the same.

"Not too awful," she amends and Mary gives her the slightest of nods.

They sit, three sisters, at peace.

XXX

poem by d. h. lawrence.


End file.
